Whether He the quaint savant's power doth held I now not, Albeit aetat a thousand stars' birth He is - Zuoth I that for reasons to me oblivious August of a granditude of servants is He held,
And by plastic consonantry e'en more servants to the host addéd are -
Pelf they are, dare I say!
Maugre His diurnal serphic deviltry I say that deviltry - 'tis forsooth deviltry! -
Mind not this in scintillating shades clad is; To claim the glore is He suffer'd.
Grant me the fatlings, gouth He,the fatter the better! And died they of starvation; They are not slaughtering their fatlings - They are slaughtering 'hemselves.
Sith I at time of yester the questions durst ask, And dare I say this burthen weightful was,
Wrack of His machine - like motion was I naméd, Tho' blind and fond the jesters rebuilt
The machine alike - yet whettéd and dight are its edges...
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